


Two Calls

by Efyor



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Addiction, Death, Dependence - Freeform, Depression, Drugs, F/M, Overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 19:10:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20935292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Efyor/pseuds/Efyor
Summary: Daniel trying to deal with the decaying world around him.





	Two Calls

Sometimes I broke up with him at a moment I couldn't manage to be alone at all. And it were times like those where it often only took a few days- three weeks tops- for me to call and ask if I could come home again. These moments occurred so often that I couldn't possibly remember them all and as mentioned, I often couldn't handle it and was just drunk all the time.

And so it happened that one time, miserable as I was, I found myself at one of those infamous 'junky' parties, not knowing how I got there or what I was doing there. I was rapidly getting drunk on cheap beer, a lot less glorious than getting drunk on whisky which always brought the luxury of simply forgetting everything. This cheap beer also whispered bitter sweet promises of a catastrophic hang-over with every bottle of it that I uncapped. There was hardly interaction between the people there... many of them homeless, some tweaked out of their minds and most just too disappointed by life to even care any more. But it so happened that at some point a girl nestled against me in the crook of my arm that rested on the back of the dirty couch that supported stains one didn't want to know the origin off. She smelled of perfume and old beer and loneliness and she started talking to me about things nobody cared about. But her voice was so sweet and slurred and pathetic that I wanted to keep her right where she was- her shoulder somewhat uncomfortably lodged in my armpit and her slightly matted blonde hair tickling my chin with every breath she took. A lost soul. And she stayed there the rest of the night and we then both spoke of things nobody cared about. And as nature would have it, her lips greeted mine multiple times in almost slow-motion collisions of mutual appreciation and the more she seemed to drink, the less I did. I don't know why. 

When morning came, I was exhausted and I didn't want to sleep among the people there, too paranoid of losing my money to greedy hands. The girl was so far gone at this point, that I did not want to leave here either and even though I could have afforded a more luxurious hotel, the closer the better it seemed for her and soon we found ourselves in a small, scarcely decorated room with thin walls and snoring neighbours, but to both of us, for now, it was home. Despite the exhaustion, making love to her just seemed the right thing to do in this cliché scenario of boy meets girl. I remember being afraid to break her... she was skinny and fragile and every part of her body was a showcase of an unhealthy lifestyle. I wondered if Armand observed me like this too, but then I figured he didn't. He had no trouble hurting me. Then again, I often asked for it. Could I hurt her if she asked for it? I don't think I could have.

Before we fell asleep, while she was laying naked on top of me with her eyes already closed, she asked if she could stay. I could never have objected. And so the curtains stayed closed and we weren't aware of days or nights for what might have been a weekend or a week. I was either greeted by blaring sunlight or the more comfortable, familiar darkness of night every time I went out to get some food or more alcohol for the both of us. And when I got back to the room, my mate was there, so loyally waiting for me to come back to turn down the food, tempt me into more physical affections or simply use my naked chest to make her lines and borrow my money to snort it up. Because of this, there were hardly any real conversations or lucidity between us, but it seemed to both of us just the company was enough.  
I never even knew her name. I also hardly ever partook in her habits. There were perhaps two or three times I hit some up my brains too, but snorting cocaine is simply nasty and call me spoiled, but I like my highs to have a comfort level of at least ninety percent. Cocaine fails to hit fifty. But she was sweet and warm and I fell for the little trick of liking her more every time she told me she loved me, even though I knew it were the intoxications talking. Our bodies seemed like magnets, never losing contact as if needing each other's warmth and I fell asleep with her attached to me to wake up with her attached to me. 

But it was all so horribly fake and yet seemed so much like it is supposed to be to many standards. But the more wakings passed, the more I realised why she had cuddled up against me that night on that couch. The morning I found her cold and lifeless in my arms I was not so much disgusted as I was grieved. And soon as I realised the tears shed were not because of me but because of her. She had probably known it- felt it that she was at her end and I was both sad and happy for her. Sad that it had to be those of a stranger, but happy that she died in someone's arms. She had not been alone. 

I made two calls. First an ambulance. Then Armand. I didn't want things to end for me in the arms of a stranger. I had the luxury of not having to be alone.


End file.
